


Heaven Forbid You End Up Alone

by hayesgeneration



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feelings of Inadequacy, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Pack, Post Season/Series 02, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayesgeneration/pseuds/hayesgeneration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek finally resigns to the fact that he simply can't bear life anymore.<br/>And on top of, y'know, wanting to kill himself, he feels even worse because then, he won't "do his time". But his betas are gone, he has failed, he's lonely, and he's had enough.<br/>So he goes about normal things, wrapping up the parts of his life that needs to be in order when he goes.<br/>And no one seems to be noticing anything.<br/>Except Stiles.<br/>And Stiles will be damned if he's going to lose this one too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Forbid You End Up Alone

Derek makes his decision on a clear September morning sitting on his creaking porch, and watching the sky decide which shade of dawn it wants to be.

He can’t do this—this _life_ thing, anymore. 

Derek picks absently at a hole in his jeans, just below his left knee. Morning smells heavy today, smells like grass and rotten wood and old ground. Smells like gasoline and humans, like leather and salt. Derek stands. Shucks off his jacket.

Originally the whole leather-jacket thing had been a joke, a Laura-joke, because despite the ink stain losing the family left on her personality, so much that sometimes, Derek felt he could taste it thick in the air, she was still Laura; Laura with the bad jokes, Laura the big sister, Laura who knew that Derek likes his coffee with a lot of milk, Laura who loved bad television shows and incredibly dark chocolate.

_You’re brooding, Derek, and you’re a hip New Yorker now, it’s a perfect match. Go on, put it on._

Mostly, Derek thinks, she did it to be able to laugh at the way he still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of being able to fill it out after two years away from Beacon Hills, squaring his shoulders and constantly adjusting the sleeves. The first jacket, from Laura, got lost in a park because Derek was careless; he wouldn’t fit into it now anyway, but he still regrets it, a little bit. Since New York, the smell of leather has stuck, has turned into something safe later turned bittersweet, but he knows it, so he keeps it.

Derek never settled in New York, never settled with their sister pack; he was sure they looked at him, blamed him. They’d known the family for years, known the Hales like their own, and Derek had taken that away from them, they had to blame him for that. Laura said it was nonsense. Derek was sure.

He drapes the jacket carefully over a chair.

Derek enters his house, cradles the doorframe in his palm, and sucks his lower lip into his mouth as he looks around. The funny thing (while not being nowhere near funny, at all) is that Derek had been so sure he wouldn’t do this, and usually when settling on something, he tends to stay there. Which is double on the irony and frankly depressing sentiments, because on top of, well, the decision itself, Derek actually feels worse about then not doing his time.

Because he brought Kate in.

Derek crosses the threshold, walks through the remains of the kitchen, dragging lines in the dust on flat surfaces with a finger.

In reality there are probably a lot of things he should be doing time for, Derek thinks. Screwing up teenagers, _kids_ , creating false hope for not just himself but for the people he tells to trust him. Doing time for the level of naivety that’s made him think that things will make more sense once he’s made himself a pack. But packs aren’t _made_ , packs are formed, there’s a difference to the sentiment, to the patience and the feel of it, and Derek hasn’t done that right, and now Erica and Boyd have been missing for a week.

He takes the stairs two at a time, but slowly, not touching the railing because it creaks and rattles.

And he can’t get through to Scott. Derek blames the feeling of mind-numbing disappointment gradually smothered in anger on never having been raised to be an alpha, and thus not having gotten the tools to deal with things like that; he got his sister’s mentors burned and his sister slashed open by an uncle who has disappeared again, and Derek isn’t even sorry, he’s just relieved, and that makes him feel bad as well. Blood is blood; uncle Peter is still family, somehow still pack too, but Derek is perversely glad he’s gone. It’s easier that way. He blames himself, because that’s easier too.

Derek falls on his stomach onto the mattress in Laura’s old bedroom, on the mess of shirts and sheets, things he’s picked up, things people have left, mostly in the train car. Most of it is Isaac’s, but Isaac has stayed with the McCalls since his fellow betas vanished. Derek doesn’t blame him. He closes his eyes and curls into the mess of cloth, inhales deeply, _Isaac, Boyd, Erica, bit of Scott and Stiles,_ and tries to sleep.

His existance sits under his skin like an itch he can't get to.

He’ll start tomorrow.

 

**- Ɣ -**

 

Stiles knows something is up, but he’s still not sure what.

Well, he knows _some_ of what’s up, because they still haven’t been able to track down Boyd and Erica, best noses in the world on their side or not, Isaac has silently and undeniably been freaking out at Scott’s house for a week, Jackson and Lydia have suddenly and conveniently decided to go on “a vacation”, sure, right, thus being of no freaking help, and the alpha pack Derek and Peter spoke so mysteriously of before Peter went off to god-knows-where and Derek barricaded himself in his house like a detached psycho, hasn’t showed up.

But it isn’t the still invisible threat of an alpha pack that bothers him, even though Scott says he can feel it in the air, feel that something’s coming, and if that isn’t a sinister, fantasy novel-worthy foreboding, Stiles doesn’t know what is. Also, alpha pack. On a level from one to Bought My Parachute In A Toy Store, that’s pretty up there.

But nope, it’s not that, despite it being serious enough to make Stiles’ fucking liver quiver with suppressed horror at the thought.

It’s Derek. Because he’s now seen Derek twice in two days, and Stiles is almost 99% sure that when Derek doesn’t want to be seen, you won’t see him. He’ll creep in the shadows and do his business secretly like an eccentric, rich, handsome, but still not-at-all-like-Batman type guy.

Which means he’s either a) baiting Stiles somehow, for some reason, which could be anything, because fuck knows what goes on in Derek’s head, or b) because he’s very damn distracted.

The first time, he sees Derek at the bank. Stiles is in line for gas behind the dirtiest Hummer in the world, reading on the Kindle app on his phone and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, when he sees Derek exit the bank. That in itself is weird enough, because as the jury knows, Derek usually doesn’t just strut around town, but also, something’s way off about his posture, at least enough that Stiles notices.

Stiles could assume that it’s because two of his betas are missing, and the third is playing Love Me Like A Homeless Puppy with Scott, but because he’s Stiles, and because he has spent enough time observing Derek (and the others, he isn’t a selective creep, he’s just observant) and also because he’s been doing this thinking-thing for a while, he doesn’t.

Because Derek looks like a man who doesn’t want to just get away from other people, but like he’s gradually buckling under the pressure of not being able to get away from himself.

 

 **- Ɣ -**  

 

Derek modifies his bank accounts, his will. The bank lady makes shifty eyes at him, like his intentions might be sinister, but Derek calmly explains that while he’s fine, losing his sister made him realise how frail life is, all that emotional hurl that makes mid-aged moms think he’s just a thoughtful, quiet, young man, soft and suffering underneath the serial-killer exterior, with a troubled past and a lot of time to be philosophical. The whole town knows about him anyway, why not use that.

The lie rolls out easily, accompanied by a smile, and the woman smiles back knowingly, like ‘I understand you, young man, it’s very thoughtful of you to want to take care of these things in this day and age’, while Derek thinks no, you don’t, you really don’t understand, but as long as she doesn’t report him for dubious behaviour, he doesn’t care.

The next day he visits the family plot in the graveyard. He feels guilty for not actually having been back a single time since he returned to Beacon Hills, but it’s better late than never, he supposes. There’s a spot for him, next to Laura, still skilfully occupied by plants, but he knows it’s his. He knows because he chose it.

Derek thinks it’s tragic how something becomes a “family plot” instead of “where a few Hales are buried close to each other when they’ve gotten old and died”, overnight.

He hesitates for a moment before putting down the flowers closest to Laura’s headstone.

“Sorry. She’s gotten the least flowers,” he mutters, and leaves, because the sucking feeling in his chest is making it hard to breathe.

 

**- Ɣ -**

 

Two days after seeing Derek driving up the road that only leads to the graveyard, just as Stiles gets out of the library with about a ton of hunting books on tracking, he figures it out.

The realisation brings bile up in the back of his throat, and he almost drops the books on his own feet, but he isn’t sure why.

Less than 24 hours later, he’s been sneaking access to certain bank records by way of bribing Danny with the phone number of a guy he’s met at Jungle (pointedly ignoring Danny when he asks why Stiles doesn’t call him himself), and gotten access to the Hale family’s attorney’s records and Derek’s will.

Stiles knows Preparations, capital fucking P, like that when he sees them. He’s a little confused about the whole will, because there’s a lot of lawyer talk even Stiles has trouble translating, despite having practised, but it seems like in the case of Derek’s demise, a lot of money is going to the preserve, and a lot are, surprisingly, going to several different people Stiles never heard of – and to Isaac, not to be in his possession until he’s legal.

Derek is doling out amounts money Stiles hadn’t, in his wildest dreams, imagined Derek had. And that makes him worry.

He’s not going to rush anything, though; he could be wrong. Maybe Derek is just (finally, because seriously) getting just a little aware of his actual mortality, being kind of indestructible as he is or not. Stiles will think it through, look for more evidence; evidence is key, evidence brings home the truth.

It’s Friday and he stays over at Scott’s with Isaac, deep in thought and hardly paying attention to the gaming. He still wins most rounds, of course, because Scott sucks, at least compared to Stiles, and Isaac is trying to win Stiles’ affection as subtly as possible while still outwardly trying to seem like a bit of a badass.

 

**- Ɣ -**

 

Clearing his tracks is the tricky part; he needs to make sure new hunters won’t pick up on anything, preferably even before entering Beacon Hills, not now when the Argents are finally laying off in the light of the Gerard-incident. He needs to keep his pack safe, even if they’re not really his, anymore. Maybe they never were.

Which is why it’s best if he just goes away.

Derek swallows, picks up his phone. He has the number of a guy in Santa Monica who’ll be willing to help him out for a not inconsiderable sum of money. Derek has money. He’s going to need help leading every single trace of the old Hale pack away, out of Beacon Hills; generations worth of old magic, tracks and territory markings, things that have sat, festered and become part of the landscape, part of the town. It’s not easy, and he can’t do it alone, mostly because he doesn’t know how. This is not his area; he knows how to _mark_ , not remove, knows a lot about not making trails to begin with but too little about creating false ones and removing what’s already been made over the years.

He’s going to need help taking it with him when he leaves to find a quiet place far away to die by himself.

The guy will be there in four days. Derek can’t feel comfortable knowing how much it costs, doing something like that, so he just tells the guy to “name it when he gets here”. It all suddenly seems very real.

Derek curls up upstairs, feeling like his skin is shrinking on him, and misses touch more than ever.

 

 **- Ɣ -**  

 

Sometimes Stiles wonders if Derek actually thinks they’re all stupid. Not necessarily now, just in general. He wonders for a while before sadly settling on the far more likely possibility that this time specifically, Derek just doesn’t think they care, or that they’re not noticing, and it’s making Stiles’ heart ache.

He’s noticing.

He doesn’t know Derek that well, he’s not entirely sure if they’re friends or not (probably not, in the light of all the death threats, but maybe on some days they’re actually close to), and he’s still searching for a way to go about this. But he’s Stiles, he’s right here, and he’s noticing.

And he’ll be damned if he’s going to lose this one too.

 

**- Ɣ -**

 

“You know,” Stiles begins loudly when he slowly saunters into the house, feet creaking on the floor downstairs. Derek heard the Jeep but didn’t bother moving; maybe it’s good for him, being told off for disappearing for a while. Maybe it’ll be good for Stiles, like closure. He’s a smart kid; he’ll figure out what happened a while after Derek’s gone for good.

“When I was a kid I had this really bad period of time where things just weren’t working out for me.”

Derek stiffens in his nest. Sits up.

“My mom had just died and I was angry at my dad and myself, things just kind of sucked really bad, and when you’re ten, it’s a lot to keep to yourself because the school counsellor can’t get through to you, mostly because you refuse talking to her. She wasn’t very good at her job, she kept forgetting my name. I didn’t trust her.”

Derek hears Stiles enter the kitchen. His voice is loud but he isn’t shouting, the perfect level for Derek to be able to hear him, and Derek wonders just how much Stiles has learned about werewolves that Derek hasn’t considered; one thing is getting the bite. You tend to learn all the new things either by instinct or the hard way. It’s something entirely different, Derek realises, when you’re just an on-looker, a friend, someone who has to adjust to the changes in someone _else_.  

“And the thing was I didn’t really know what to do. Everything becomes sort of fuzzy outside your head, outside being hurt and being sad and hating the world, and, well,” Stiles hesitates, and Derek hears his calm heartbeat speed up just slightly.

“I thought killing myself was the best option.” Stiles has reached the foot of the stairs. Derek is clenching one of Isaac’s shirts so hard it’s tearing. No. He’s not ready for this to become a conversation, this wasn’t part of the plan.

“That’s pretty overwhelming for a ten year old, I’ll tell you that, but my dad always says I’ve been a drama queen most of my life. Thing is, I don’t think I am. Or, I don’t think back then had anything to do with being a drama queen. I just hurt. I hurt so much and I missed my mom and,” Stiles swallows, steadies himself. Derek has a prickling, slightly sickening feeling that maybe, Stiles hasn’t talked about this before; he doesn’t like Stiles wasting a secret like that on him.

“And I just wanted it to stop, I really did.” Derek can hear Stiles on the stairs, can hear him touching the railing briefly, hears it creak, hears Stiles quickly let go.

“Thing is, while you don’t have a lot of bank accounts and wills to fix when you’re a kid, there are still, you know, things that make sense to wrap up, to finish and ready for when you’re gone. I made my own will, sort of, in dark blue crayon, about which of my best things should go to Scott, which ones my dad could give away if he wanted to, which ones I didn’t want anyone else to have. I pillaged a garden and brought my mom flowers, said goodbye, see you soon, all that.”

Derek breath hitches, and he’s almost sure Stiles heard; he’s close now, two doors away at the top of the stairs.

“I felt really bad for my dad, but he hadn’t started drinking yet that early after mom died, I didn’t really think about that as a way for him to unravel back then, you know? Like, I was only ten, I didn’t think about that. It was selfish but I was sure my dad could do it. He was Super Dad, just, super strong, you know, he could do anything, anything but save my mom and me, and I didn’t blame him for that.”

Stiles goes quiet for a moment. Derek curls tighter in on himself. His chest hurts something awful.

“The only thing I did different, Derek? I wrote a note. I wrote a letter, I had the decency to explain myself. I chickened out, of course, because Scott figured out something was wrong and confronted me, gave me a real heart-to-heart with a lot of hugging and weeping on each other, and he told me he loved me and then I got help, but that’s not my point, because obviously I’m still here.

“My point is I was going to leave a note, Derek. And I’m surprising myself when I say to you that what makes me the most angry is that you’re trying to do this without explaining yourself, like what, you’re just going up and leave without a trace? It’s not even the fact that you’re letting _us_ look for your damn betas, thank you for that, by the way, or the fact that you’ve been a dick since they disappeared, it’s that you think we don’t care.”

Stiles is standing in the doorway before Derek manages to distinguish the blood rushing loudly past his ears from how close Stiles’ voice has gotten.

“Open your eyes the fuck up, Derek, because they need you, and if you can’t see that, then maybe you should really just go ahead and do whatever werewolves do when they’ve hated themselves long enough, however it's done.”

Derek opens his eyes, like a reflex, like responding to a command. Stiles looks angry, looks worried, his scent muddled and muted in Derek’s nose, overwhelmed by things Derek can’t begin to describe, a plethora of mixed emotions and the fact that his hands are _shaking_.

“This isn’t the best solution, man,” Stiles says, almost softly, and leans against the doorframe like they’re having a casual discussion, although his shoulders are hunched.

“I don’t know what else to do,” Derek hears himself say, croak, Isaac’s shirt still in his hands, under his claws. Stiles presses his mouth together in a thin line, hesitant, before moving forward, approaching Derek carefully, like he’s an animal Stiles doesn’t want to spook. Stiles slowly sits beside the mattress; Derek fights the urge to inch away.

“Talk to me. Help us find Boyd and Erica. Talk to Isaac, even. Just because he’s getting attached to Scott doesn’t mean you aren’t still his alpha.”

Something flinches in Derek. Not a bad flinch; like a release of electricity, a burst of current that starts deep in his ribcage, makes something in him growl.  

Alpha.

Family. Pack. Responsibility. _It’s about loyalty_ , Laura had said. It's different for an alpha, it sits in another part of you, in another way than for a beta.

“His alpha,” Derek repeats.

Something about love, too.

“ _Their_ alpha. So you need to get off your ass and find them,” Stiles says, taking hold of the shirt in Derek’s hands. 

“They left,” Derek retorts, suddenly unsure why it sounds like less of an argument now he’s pitching it to Stiles. Stiles, who shakes his head at him, like he’s scientifically able to prove Derek wrong.

“Doesn’t matter. You know better than any of us that there are things out there that are bigger and so much badder than you are, which, with their luck, most likely means they’ve already come across some bad shit, and if Scott can feel it you sure as hell can too, and unless you can look me in the eye and honestly tell me that you aren’t fucking _itching_ to bring your pack home, we’re not done here.”

Derek pulls slightly at the shirt. Stiles pulls back, holds on, and looks him dead in the eye. Derek doesn't register that he's moving in close to study Stiles' set expression, but Stiles doesn't move. Derek's wolf whuffles heavily against Stiles' chin, Derek's nostrils flaring with a scent of medicine, of crackling static, coffee with milk, human skin, and something heavy that smells like morning last week.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from The Fray's Heaven Forbid.
> 
> Inspired by a tumblr post I saw a while back about how Derek's only reason to still be alive is believing that he'll get off too easy if he kills himself.


End file.
